


I've Got Stars Over My Head

by traumatic_bunny



Category: Take That
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, Gen, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumatic_bunny/pseuds/traumatic_bunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rob was done with it all and now he was just waiting for it to be over with. But someone seemed to have different plans for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter of something bigger. Not adding the specific supernatural elements into tagging yet - don't want to spoil the surprise for those who'll read along ;)
> 
> Edited by amazing PR Zed.

Rob felt he was losing it, this time for real and for good. He'd had worse moments in his life, of course, he'd had lows that felt lower than anything else ever, he'd had entire months filled with deep shit at the bottom of the darkest holes – but nothing ever before had felt quite as final as this thing right now.

He'd been on a binge for... some time, he wasn't even sure how long, the days becoming irrelevant moments of light between longs stretches of dark. He would go out, come back, go out again, spend time and money with and on people whose faces were a blur and names non-existent. Then, at some point, he stopped going out, he just stayed in, in his house, his kitchen, his head.

He drew the curtains closed so it was always dark and the time stopped flowing as he sat right there, in the safety of the corner where two walls met, on the small padded cushion and green blanket, something that used to be his dog's bed. He used to have a dog... at some point. Some time ago. At least he thought so.

He moved from his spot only to get more booze from elaborate bar cupboard five steps into the lounge, two steps to the right to get the pills and baggies of white powder from the counter top, and then, sometimes, ten steps to the left, to the small bathroom, to take a piss without turning the lights on so he wouldn't catch a glimpse of his face - or something even more scary – in the bathroom mirror.

Everything was a blur now and he would slide over the reality, seeing things and hearing things, thinking thoughts that made his head explode time and time again, the bright red pieces of his brain splattered all over the expensive tiles of the kitchen walls. Then, he'd wake up still very much in one piece and cry for an eternity until he wasn't sure why he was crying any more – for the life he'd lost or for the death that was still refusing to come and claim him.

He was seeing things, too; ghosts that used to haunt his peripheral vision got bolder now, coming straight to him in shape of some young, blond man with boyish face, pleading with him and asking him about something or another. But Rob was past caring now, past being scared, past questioning his sanity, so it was easy to ignore the persistent little fucker. Basically, Rob was done, he was done with it all and now he was just waiting for it to be over with.

So, he didn't even flinch when another ghost arrived, this one looking more real than the previous one, less transparent and misty, and more like some sort of businessman, well groomed and in a suit. Rob could see him very well, even though his eyes were half closed, even though he was practically blind now with the splitting headache and the tears streaming down his face. He couldn't see a damn thing but that man, he could.

And the man looked down at him with a small frown, as if he was assessing an unpleasant and annoying task he had no way of backing out of.

“You're a bloody mess, lad,” the man said in velvety smooth voice, with an accent that reminded Rob of his homeland. “You're a mess, but we'll fix you. Even if I have to freeze hell over to make that happen.”

Somewhere near, there was a rustle of something feathery, as if a big bird ruffled its wings, a weird, screetchy caw, and Rob just stared back at that handsome, angular face, stared into those serious, bright blue eyes. Then he finally let his own eyes fall shut, and he stopped existing.

***

Reality was a weird concept for him when he was floating like this, in a dark and not entirely unpleasant place. It nagged at him, pulling him back with random surges of physical sensation, but then there would be a cool touch on his burning body and a murmuring voice that made everything seem alright, and so Rob would come back to not-really existing and floating, being and not being anywhere at the same time.

There were glimpses, too, a smell of wet feather, a random images of an angular face and blue eyes, darkness and light, and then something that could only be a dream, a silhouette of a man perched on the the top of the backrest of his favourite armchair, hunched and balancing on his toes like some sort of circus acrobat, a black splotch against the gray sky outside the window. 

Then the soft non-existence was over and Rob felt very much here and now, weak and weighted with the presence of his body as he forced his eyes open. He was in his bedroom, in his own bed, naked and under the duvet, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets feeling cold and scratchy against his clammy skin. He felt empty, hollow inside in a very much physical way and it took him a good few seconds to realise it was because he was completely sober.

“Good afternoon." The smooth, velvety voice he remembered from before echoed in the room, both soft and unpleasantly loud, making Rob groan and scrunch his whole face as if that would somehow block the sound from his ears.

“It's Sunday, eleventh of October; still the same year as before, not that I think you would notice the New Year's Eve rolling by.” The voice was still there, soft but persistent, and it got closer, now, closer to the bed and to Rob. And Rob was scared to open his eyes again and see if there was any person to accompany the sound.

“Ok, don't have a heart attack or something, not now.” The voice became a bit exasperated, and there was a clear presence Rob could feel and hear right next to the bed. Someone was standing there, the clothes he was wearing were rustling softly, the sharp intake of his breath before he spoke almost made the air around Rob's arm move – and then there was the smell, too, an expensive aftershave with a sweet notes hiding underneath.

That was what finally made Rob open his eyes again, that scent. It was something warm and pleasant, and not threatening at all, something he couldn't put his finger on, but something that vaguely reminded him of his childhood. So he dared and opened his eyes, and was met with a pair of blues, the same ones he remembered from the long long time of peace and non-existence.

“No panicking or dying of heart failure now, alright?” the man smiled lightly at him, just with his mouth, because his bright blue eyes remained serious and watchful. “We pulled you through some proper shit, we don't need more complications. Now, to make it all a bit easier – yes, you're in your house still, in your own bedroom and in your own bed, you're not tripping or hallucinating, you didn't go mad, you've also been completely clean for about 12 hours now. Yes, it was an intervention of a sort, what I did here, and yes, you're going to stay clean from now on and I'm here to make sure you do. Any questions?”

“Who the fuck are you?” was all Rob could say, the words feeling almost like they had a physical presence in his dry mouth, rolling off his tongue like little wooden blocks.

“My name is Gary and I'm your new personal assistant.” The man smiled again and took a step back to sit down on the chair right next to the bed. He did look like an assistant, that Rob had to admit, with his neat haircut and crisp white shirt, even with the sleeves rolled up and a five o'clock shadow on his square jaw. Rob's brain finally started working again, helpfully pushing the ideas at him, about something that must have happened while he took the holiday from reality, that someone from the record company or maybe his manager must have hired some therapist slash bodyguard to sort him, but somehow the fact Rob was sober now prevented him from just agreeing with the most plausible idea.

“I don't remember you,” he said, frowning and trying to push himself up, groaning as his muscles felt both terribly weak and terribly aching. “I don't... remember anyone telling me about you. I have an assistant and his name is Peter. Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?”

The fear was rising, his heart beating fast, his breath getting shorter as the adrenaline kicked in. He managed to sit up, shaking and sweating, and he felt so dizzy that he almost threw up on the spot, even though his stomach felt like the epitome of emptiness.

The man – Gary – frowned at him but didn't move, sitting in the chair still, his body relaxed, his serious eyes trained on Rob.

“Relax, I'm not here to hurt you. I've been by your side for five days now; if I was here to do you any harm, I've had plenty of opportunities to do so,” he said calmly, his voice somehow even deeper now, softer, like a cat's purr, and Rob's body relaxed, too, despite of all that was going on in his head now, as if the man was administering a tranquilizer right through his ears.

“I was appointed to get you clean and make sure you stay clean, that is all. Personal assistant sounds a bit better than personal junkie guard... sorry, addiction therapist, don't you think?” There was a clear hint of sarcasm in Gary's voice, something Rob really didn't like, just like being called a junkie, but he let it go for now, too weak to argue or even to yell at the man, let alone try and get out of bed to run away.

The resignation that had held him in its arms for so long now came back again, like an old, toxic friend, and Rob just nodded, falling back onto the pillows and curling on his side with the duvet pulled up high. There was nothing to keep the depression at bay now, there was nothing to keep him out of his head, and Rob started to remember how he hated to be there, to be himself, in the first place. He was no one, a piece of shit, a slave to his record company, a little puppet on strings that didn't have a say even in ending his miserable life. No, the men in suits were going to punish him for trying to escape by putting another man in a suit by his bed, a fucking watch dog – guard dog – making sure Rob wouldn't get away, ever.

“Oh no, you don't,” there was that murmur again and the man moved, coming closer and crouching by Rob's bed, reaching out to touch him, and before Rob had a chance to move away, there was a hand on his forehead. A soft, cool hand and a touch that was surprisingly soothing, feeling like a cool compress and a warm blanket at the same time.

“None of that self pity crap, yeah? Not now. You have to rest, Bob,” the voice was matter-of-fact but still soft, and the nickname made Rob think of home again, the happy days of his youth, his mates, his life that was still void of all the worry and anguish, and he closed his eyes, feeling his face softening under that gentle touch, sighing lightly before he fell into the warm blackness of sleep. 

***

Next time he woke up, he was alone in his room, but there was a sound coming from afar, a sound of someone walking around, sounds of footsteps, and the distant murmur of a voice. He instantly remembered all that had happened before, but was still, hoping it was just some bad trip, some drug induced dream, a nightmare of a rehab, and that he was gonna find his manager and his assistant, all scruffy and worried in the living room, debating about his future.

He got out of bed, slowly, his limbs still not feeling quite like his, pulled on a tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, and padded down the hall and towards the voice. The closer he got to the living area of the house, the more evident it became that it wasn't his manager or his assistant there, but the weird guy he was still hoping to be just a hallucination. No such luck, it seemed, the not-really hallucination was in the kitchen, very much real, and apparently cooking pancakes.

Rob swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling just how empty his stomach was and thinking how lovely a fluffy pancake would taste. He slowly crept closer to the kitchen door, his bare feet silent on the smooth, wooden floor.

The man was there, his back to the door, busy over the stove. He was wearing his white shirt again, again with the sleeves rolled up, and he was humming a melody while expertly tossing the pancake into the air. Then he stopped, tensing, as he probably sensed Rob's presence, and then turned to look at him over his shoulder. There was a weird blur of light behind him, something obscuring Rob's vision for a moment, something that made him blink and shake his head because damn, he was still so dizzy.. There was just no way he saw a big, fluttering shape shape that was both there and not there, attached to the man's shoulders.

“Good morning, Robert,” the man – Gary, Rob reminded himself – greeted him with a small, tight smile before turning back towards the stove again. “Hungry?”

“You're still here,” Rob murmured, stepping gingerly into the kitchen and walking towards the breakfast counter, not because he really felt like staying but because his legs felt too weak to support him right now and he just had to sit down. His words sounded more like an accusation than a statement of fact, but it didn't seem to bother Gary in the slightest.

“Yes, I am, indeed, still here, and I'll stay for a bit longer, just like I told you,” he said, using a spatula to slide the ready pancake onto a small stack of previously-made ones and then swiftly turning to bring it to Rob. There was the weird blur behind his back again and Rob groaned, rubbing at his eyes. God, how he could use something stronger right now; a glass of whisky would be great, or at least a cigarette.

“Your fags are over there, although I'd really recommend eating something first or you might puke.” Gary nodded towards the other side of the counter where a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were sitting neatly. “As for a drink, I'm afraid I can only offer you tea. Or orange juice.”

Rob stared at him for a second, not sure if he'd heard right – was he that transparent to this man? Was he really some sort of junkie therapist and knew people 'like Rob', knew what he was longing for, what he was craving right now? Gary was looking back at him, those bright blue eyes cool and collected, a small, tight smile still on his lips. Rob didn't even blink as he reached out to grab the plate and fling it across the room. It hit the wall and fell onto the floor with a clatter, pieces of broken glass mixing with pancake.

“This is my house and you're not gonna fucking tell me what to do.” He didn't even raise his voice, he just sneered at Gary, waiting for some sort of reaction, but when all he got was one arched eyebrow, he'd had it. He cursed loudly and hopped off the bar stool, staggering towards the living room. It was his house and if he wanted a drink, he was going to have one, and no one was going to stop him. That was what he mostly yelled in Gary's general direction as he walked straight to his liquor cabinet, yanking the mahogany door open.

But the cabinet was empty. There was nothing there, not only were all the bottles gone, but the glasses, the napkins, the coasters, the ice bucket – even the bloody peanuts he kept there for his guests were gone. The cabinet stared back at him, vast and empty, void of everything but the glass shelves, and Rob saw red.

He'd had it, he really had, the anger at someone messing with his life entwining with the ever growing fear that he was out of control, that there was no alcohol and he needed it, he fucking needed it and now. The glass shelves went first, smashing into pieces against the nearby wall, then some trinkets off the mantel, then the pictures off the wall, the chairs, the sofa pillows, and then he just collapsed, out of breath, his head spinning so much that for a long while the only thing he saw was darkness with lots of gray and white dots dancing before his eyes.

“You done?” Gary's voice was still calm, but even in his half conscious state, Rob could hear the man was not impressed by his behaviour. Good, he thought. That was what I was aiming for.

“Not nearly,” he rasped, trying to focus his eyes again and look up at the other man. He succeed, somewhat, seeing just a darker silhouette in the sea of bright dots, but it was enough for him to smirk and feel triumphant. “I wanna call my manager.”

“I can't see why not. You know where the phones are,” Gary shrugged and moved away, his footsteps sounding surprisingly sharp on the polished wooden floor.

Rob stayed where he was for a while longer and then pushed himself up, cursing the weakness that overcame his body, before he staggered back to his bedroom, not even glancing at Gary's direction. The bastard was back in the kitchen, cooking more pancakes and humming again, just as if nothing had happened. It was unnerving and annoying, but on some level, Rob admired how collected the guy seemed. He wished, not once, he could be like that, too.

***

“Rob? Thank god, I was getting worried about you!”

James, his manager, sounded genuinely concerned, but Rob only snorted at that, curling on his unmade bed and staring out of the window, at the green lawn.

“Sure you were. I would be too if I left my artist alone with a psycho,” he spat into the receiver and was greeted with a moment of silence and then a heavy sigh.

“I had no choice, Robert. You were rolling down a fucking slope and it was either that or arranging your funeral.”

“Yeah, sure, just tell me what the label threatened you with,” Robbie wasn't in the mood for compassion. He was shaking, just a little bit, his whole body feeling weird, like his skin was too tight, stretching and itching him everywhere, and he just wanted a fucking drink.

“It's not just my money at risk, Robert. It's yours, too, your pretty house, your blonde girls with big tits, your cars and bikes – everything that you were happily pissing down the drain, and you still are, for that matter. I can hear you're sober but that's just a beginning. Gary is the best, far better than any damned rehab we've tried.”

“And you know that how?” Rob huffed, feeling around the bed hastily, trying to locate his smokes and then remembering he hadn't taken them off the kitchen counter. Fucking perfect.

There was a silence on the other side of the phone, James clearly hesitating for a good few seconds, not saying a thing, and Rob almost went 'a-ha, I knew it, it's all load of bull!', but just then his manager spoke again.

“The label executives sent him.” There was still a hesitation in his voice, like he wasn't sure about the details, like he'd forgotten about something and was desperately trying to remember. “They're investing big bucks in you, they care...”

“Bollocks, all they care about is the next fucking record!”

“The one you're supposed to be already putting together.” His manager's voice got harder now, and colder, too. “And I know for a fact you don't have a single fucking song written, never mind demoed, so quit the fucking crap and accept the fucking help.”

Rob could feel it, the defiance rising in him, like some damn brick wall, higher and higher, the more he was pushed into this stupid situation.

“Well then, Jimmy, let me tell you this. There's no way you or label or this little prick in a suit can make me do a damn thing, you hear me?” he grinned, making his voice sickeningly sweet. “I'll do what I fucking please and you can't do shit about it.”

“Well then, Robbie.” The answer came smoothly and without any hesitation this time. “Do what you fucking please and be dropped, I don't give a flying fuck any more.”

The short click as his manager disconnected and the long signal that came next never felt so lonely... and so god damned unfair.

***

The patio door was open, and a warm mid-morning breeze sliding into the living room, turning the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere into something real and alive. Rob dragged his feet across the hardwood floor, cigarette finally dangling off his lip, the tip glowing brighter as he took another deep drag, filling his lungs with bitter smoke and feeling his chest relaxing and expanding, just a little bit.

Gary was outside, his back to the door, standing by the railing and looking down the hill and towards the sea. He had a mug in his hand, sipping from it every few seconds – tea, not coffee, Rob was somehow sure of it. He stood straight, no slouching, no relaxing of those broad shoulders, head held high, eyes fixed on the horizon. He had a nice, sharp profile, Rob decided as he stood at the threshold, squinting against the bright sunlight.

“How did the call go?” Gary asked without moving or even glancing his way, as if he sensed Rob was there, lurking in the shadows.

“Good,” Rob didn't feel like giving anything but this short answer, this mind already working double time, trying to think of something, anything, to get this man off his back or at least piss him off. The living room was still trashed, Gary obviously hadn't touched a thing, which surprised Rob greatly. Somehow he'd had an idea that the other man would be exactly like his assistant, caring for him and catering to all his needs, unless they were about drugs. It didn't seem this way though, and it threw him off a little, jumbling his thoughts and making him dismiss a few ideas already.

The small glass table was set, Rob noticed, the breakfast tray on it, with orange juice and a pot of tea sitting there alongside the plate full of fresh pancakes. It was set for one in a very obvious way, like Gary was telling him 'I already ate mine, now it's your turn'. Rob pursed his lips at that, taking an extra long drag of his cigarette instead.

“He told you it's either me or a broken contract, right?” Gary finally did glance at him, arching his brow slightly as if he wanted to make sure the message was delivered. “The choice is yours, I guess, but the thing is, I don't do quitting. I mean, I don't really care about your career choices, but I do care about you being alive and clean, and that's gonna be my job right now. To make you stay clean for long enough for you to be able to make other decisions, like those about writing more music or flipping your managers off. Do you understand?”

Rob huffed again. He didn't like that cool tone, he didn't like that matter-of-fact bullshit the man was feeding him. He didn't like any of it, or the fact that someone – anyone – was trying to tell him how to live his life.

“It's gonna be a pleasure to see you trying,” he sneered, taking one last drag of his cigarettes and then moving towards the table to put it out against the neat stack of warm pancakes.

Gary was finally facing him, watching him with that stony expression, his blue eyes wide and watchful, and Rob stared back, jaw squared, chin sticking forward, eyes narrowed, daring, practically begging the other man to have a go at him. Gary didn't move and Rob sent him a proper, shit eating grin as he made a show of dropping the cigarette butt into the orange juice.

The tension suddenly became almost palpable, the hairs on Rob's forearms almost standing up with the electric charge in the air - and then Gary smiled.

It was a small, crooked smile, just one corner moving up, making his thin lips curve just so. It wasn't a smirk, it wasn't a grimace, it was a proper, tiny smile, reaching Gary's eyes and lighting them up for a second, making them warmer.

“The pleasure will be truly mine.”


	2. Chapter 2

At night, his house seemed even bigger and more silent, more lonely, like some haunted mansion right out of a horror movie. Usually Rob would keep all the lights in the halls on, not letting the darkness creep in too much, not wanting to be startled by a stray shadow – or whatever could be hiding in it. Right now though, he was almost happy that there was no light in the main hall so he could creep towards the front door safely. This time he was that thing hiding in the shadows.

The previous day had been eventful, to say the least, with him doing his best to piss Gary off and Gary obviously doing his best to stay calm. So far, it was 1:0 for Gary The Suited Prick, but Rob hadn't had the last word yet.

He had his wallet in his pocket, all his credit cards in place, he was dressed casually but well enough to hit the town, and he was making his way towards the front door, listening carefully to any sounds coming from the back of the house and the guest bedrooms. There was only silence though, with a soft hum of the AC and nothing but, and Rob risked a small, excited smile, already believing he was heading for a win this time.

He was exhausted, that was true, his body feeling weak and unstable, the occasional shakes still catching him off guard, but he was doing much much better than the last time, in the rehab facility. According to Gary, had been clean for a bit over a day now so there was no way it had happened without any pharmacological aid, not with how mostly ok Rob felt. He'd checked his arms, looking for any signs of injections, but he'd found none. He didn't have any memory of being given any pills either, so whatever Gary had done, it was a mystery. Still, it was working so Rob wasn't about to dwell on that. He was going to have more of the real shit soon enough to make sure the good feeling would turn into amazing one.

The green glow of the alarm by the front door was beckoning him closer, and Rob couldn't help a small giggle as he tiptoed closer, reaching out towards the small keyboard, ready to punch in the code and disarm it. His hand was shaking and he had to take a deeper breath to try and steady it, not wanting to fuck up right now. He only had three tries before it would go off – and it would not only alert the nearby police station and the private security company but also block all the locks and release the shutters over the windows, effectively trapping him inside.

He punched in the code carefully, his mouth moving as he recited the numbers silently, and then he cursed as the screen blinked at him in red. Invalid password. What the fuck? Rob cursed again and punched the familiar numbers one more time, only to be met with the same result.

“The fucking fucker...” he muttered, glaring over his shoulder and down the hall, curling his hands into fists as he imagined driving them repeatedly into Gary's stupid face. His new ‘assistant’ had to have changed the bloody code, there was no other explanation. He'd messed with Rob's stuff in his own home and didn't even care to mention anything, of course. Rob ground his teeth, huffing and raking his hands through his hair in exasperation. It was so ridiculous, seriously! What the hell did he do to deserve all this shit?

He could just go for it, of course, open the damn front door and run for the front gate. He'd be able to climb over it, maybe, in time, before all the troops appeared, expecting to catch a burglar. But if he did that, it would also activate the damn loud alarm, all the sirens and flashing lights, and Rob had a sinking feeling Gary would be awake and pulling him off the gate before the cops or the security guards could even make it halfway here.

The anger was once again mixing with the feeling of helplessness, and Rob caught himself on his way towards the living room and the liquor cabinet, then stopped. The damn thing was empty, of course, courtesy of his fucking junkie guard. Rob swore, rubbing his hands together and looking around mindlessly, feeling his whole body started shivering again.

“Fucking stop it, you stupid piece of shit,” he muttered, squeezing his hands together and then rubbing vigorously over his forearms, not even noticing when he curled his fingers and started scratching hard, leaving long red welts over his inked skin.

Windows were out of question. They were also wired, just like the front and back door, and any door for that matter, even – or maybe especially – the roof windows in his studio he had built in the attic. He was trapped, Rob realised, and that thought almost made him start yelling and smashing things again.

Then he remembered. He remembered the trap door in the roof. The simple one, only accessible from the small landing in front of his studio door. Impossible to open from the outside and from the inside only accessible by a stepladder, one that he kept hidden in his studio, just in case. He'd seen The Panic Room enough times to want a way out of his safe house if he ever needed one. And there it was, this moment he had it ready for, right the fuck now.

Rob let out a small squeal of joy, immediately pressing his hand over his mouth to muffle it, and then started creeping slowly back down the hall, to the east part of the house and to the narrow, wooden stairs. He had his way out; he was going to show this stupid suited prick who was the boss here.

***

By the time Rob finally had the trap door opened, he was drenched in sweat and shaking badly. He had no idea doing something like this, carrying a stepladder around and then using it while trying not to make a sound and not to trip in the darkness, could be so exhausting. Maybe the fact he felt like shit again added to it, too, but he purposefully ignored that part. The city with its remedies was already within his reach, he'd go there, find some stuff and feel better, soon.

The night air messed with his hair, drying the sweat from his forehead, making him smile despite everything. He was looking through the hole in the roof, his hand still trembling, muscles burning, after he managed to rest it quietly against the roof tiles just moments ago. He was standing at the top of the ladder, legs wobbly, half consciously trying to keep balance on a thing that was meant to be swaying, that was about to sway, or course it was, there was no way any ladder could be stable all the time so this one here was bound to start moving any second now... Rob sighed, running his shaking hand over his face. Those thoughts in his head felt like fucking bullet trains, speeding back and forth and around, spiraling out of control and taking him with them. He needed to snap out of it and now, he had to, otherwise the whole idea of climbing out of the house and through the roof was not going to work.

The grounds around his house were pretty well lit but very little of that light actually reached the highest spot on the roof, and shadows loomed all around, making the tiles look unsteady, making Rob's heart clench for one painful moment, making him consider coming back. But then he remembered Gary's cool face, that fucking arched eyebrow, and the resolve was back. With a small grunt, he grabbed the wooden frame and pushed himself up.

It wouldn't be the first time he’d done something like this. No, there were countless times he could recall now when he'd search for the highest point just to dance on it or have a smoke, or fuck someone. The higher the better, the more dangerous, the better it tasted, kisses and caresses laced with adrenaline, vodka turning sweet, the world becoming his. But right now the adrenaline only made him want to puke, twisting his stomach into bunch of tight knots, making his already shaken body tremble even harder. There was no way he was going to do any sort of stunt, no way in hell he would even try and stand up. No, he would have to crawl, slowly and carefully, on all fours, squeezing the ridge with his hands and his knees, and moving forward like some overgrown caterpillar, inch by inch towards the opposite end.

The plan was simple: go to the south side of the house, to the end of the higher part of the roof, slide down the slope towards the edge and then onto the less slanted part, and all the way across it, as far away from the guest bedrooms as possible before using the drainpipe to finally get to the ground. The plan was brilliant, but before Rob made it to the end of the ridge, he was not only exhausted, he was half dead. His whole body was shaking hard, his insides twisted, his head foggy, and the adrenaline that kicked in again didn't taste sweet, like fun and danger. It tasted bitter, like fear and helplessness.

Rob eased himself down, lying against the cold tiles, imagining just how ridiculous he had to look now, like some wet cat with a sudden bout of acrophobia, stretched flat over the ridge and holding on with all ten claws, too scared to move forward or crawl back in. Crawl back in... yes, that was a good idea, wasn't it? Rob tried to look over his shoulder and towards the black hole in the roof that he’d come from, but even that small movement caused his head to start spinning and he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and freezing in place, trying to breath through it and convince himself he wasn't going to fall.

Everything was getting fuzzy, the world around him muffled, and it was relaxing, in a way, making the fear disappear, making him feel a bit better. It was going to be fine, he was going to make it, like so many times before. Tiptoe his way across the roof, dance at the very edge, like a fucking Peter Pan, and then fly away, second star to the left...

A sound, screetchy and unpleasant, pulled him back to reality, made him open his eyes and blink the stinging sweat away. A huge, black bird sat not too far away, staring at him with its beady eye. A crow... or a raven? What was even the difference? Rob mused idly, staring back at it and then grimacing when the bird let out another caw.

“What the fuck are you doing, Bob?” the already familiar voice scolded him in already familiar way, and Rob swore, once again turning his head to look over his shoulder.

Gary was there, of course, fully dressed and perched on the edge of the trap door, looking at him with his head cocked to the side, just like that damn bird. The sensation was surreal, even more so when Gary stood up and started walking slowly towards him, putting one foot after another without a second of hesitation, as if he was walking on a wide, flat surface, not a fancy rounded ridge, made of polished roof tiles.

Rob stared, gaping, forgetting all about his pain and shakes, and even the fact he’d been so afraid to fall just a second ago. What Gary was doing right now, it was impossible, it couldn't be happening. Rob was clean, he couldn't be tripping, so... so it meant Gary was some freaky creature, a ghost, one of those terrible entities that frequented his house, and he was out here to get him, and Rob had to run the fuck away!

With a small, choked whine, Rob pushed himself up and around, his nails scratching helplessly against the tiled surface as he started to ease himself onto the slope, towards the edge. He could see Gary stopping midstep, frowning, he could hear the huge bird caw again, could hear it flapping its wings, and it was that very sound that became the last straw, kickstarting the panic.

Suddenly Rob couldn't breathe, couldn't grab hold of anything and he was sliding, down and down the smooth slope of his roof, closer and closer to the edge, and then over it and into the darkness and towards the concrete ground. He could see it all, anticipate it all, because time was slow now, thick and lazy, impossible to fight against, impossible to hold onto, and all he could see now was Gary's face, the genuine fear washing over it, and then something else, something darker, something...

There was another hushed, feathery sound, a flap of giant wings causing a gust of cool air to hit Rob's face, and then another, and a pair of hands, gripping his shoulders, stopping the fall and pulling him up, into an embrace of strong arms, right in the middle of that whooshy, feathery sound of giant flapping wings.

“You moron.” Gary's voice was feathery, too, softly disapproving, and his bright blue eyes were full of concern, and Rob let out another choked sound, clinging to him, to his light, to his warmth, to the smell of feather and sweet scent of his childhood. He was in the air but he wasn't falling, held by a pair of strong arms, jerked up and down a little, in time with the steady flap of the giant wings...

The screetchy caw was the last thing he remembered before the familiar darkness fell all over him.

***

It was warm and soft when he woke, up, and for a moment, Rob was convinced that he was dead. He remembered being on the roof, he remembered falling – maybe he really was dead now? He should be. The roof was high enough, there was a concrete path around the house, if he’d hit it...

A soft sound pulled him back to reality and forced him to open his eyes. He was in his room, in his bed, he recognised it immediately, even though it was pleasantly dark in there, just a small lamp lit in the far corner, making everything look soft and dreamy. Everything, including Gary's face.

Rob gasped, making a move to back off, move away, run from the wrath of his assistant junkie guard, but the sudden jolt made him hiss and cringe, his body aching, the overworked muscles protesting against being used. So he stilled instead, bracing himself for the inevitable speech, but nothing came. There was just silence, just the soft sound of the other man breathing, and so Rob risked another glance.

Gary was sitting by his bed, in that overstuffed chair, just like he had all those other times Rob had woken up here. But this time there was no calmness on his face, no indifference, no 'all business' expression. This time there was no crispy white shirt or immaculate hair. This time there was worry and anxiety, and a bit of anger, too, this time there was torn and stained fabric and dirt smudged on stubbly cheek.

“Why did you do that, Bob?” The question came unexpectedly, making Rob start again, the guilt creeping in, no matter how hard he tried pushing it away. There was no actual anger in Gary's voice, just something else, something... softer. Concern? Whatever it was, Rob didn't stop to think, to consider. He was already too embarrassed, too ashamed, too exposed – he was cornered. He had tried flight and it had brought him here, so yeah, fight was the only option left.

“Yeah, I know, I screwed up. I always do. A designated loser, that's who I am,” the words rolled off his tongue quickly and effortlessly, his lips already bending into that nasty grimace, the one he knew made him look arrogant and spiteful. “Go on, tell me how big a failure I really am! Can't even run away from my own fucking house without falling off the fucking roof!”

Gary frowned and leaned forward slightly, looking at Rob in a way that made his skin prickle.

“You were trying to run away,” he repeated, pronouncing every word slowly and carefully, as if considering the true meaning of each and every single of them.

“Yes, I was! What did you think, that I was trying to throw myself off that fucking roof on purpose?!” Rob yelled, cringing as his own harsh voice echoed painfully through his whole body. He looked at Gary again then, and he all but laughed.

“That's what you were thinking, bloody hell!” he sniggered, not caring for the deepening frown on Gary's face. “Why would I want to do that? Why would you ever think I was trying to off myself?”

“Dunno. Because that's exactly what you were trying to do when I found you on the kitchen floor three days ago?”

Gary's answer was fast, his voice losing its usual impassive tone and getting tighter, sharper, almost as snide as Rob's. And it was enough to shut Rob up. Because the fucker had a point there, no doubt about it.

“I would've made it if it wasn't for that damn bird,” Rob grumbled, sinking deeper into the bedding and resisting the urge to pull the comforter over his head. He already was feeling way too much like a petulant child as it was.

“Korppi,” Gary said, the word sounding odd, the 'r' hard and exaggerated, hanging in the air in a tiny pause and then followed by a double 'p', so clear and crisp that almost visible, rolling off Gary's tongue and making the air vibrate, as if it wasn't just a sound but a bird itself.

“His name is Korppi. He's with me.”

“You have a crow,” Rob more stated than asked, Because, seriously, what? He looked at Gary from under his blankets again, half expecting the man to laugh at him or mock him, but Gary's face was absolutely serious.

“He's a raven and no, I do not _have_ him. He's my companion, not my pet.” Gary's voice was calm and patient, as if he was explaining something glaringly obvious to a child.

“If you're gonna tell me now he's your little helper and he was up there on the roof to watch over me, I think I'm gonna...” Rob trailed off, because yeah, what exactly he was going to do? Call his manager? Call the cops? Call the paramedics to come and take him straight to an institution because he'd finally lost it?

And Gary was just sitting there, in Rob's favourite armchair, resting against the overstuffed cushion and looking Rob straight in the eye, and suddenly Rob was sure that yes, the bird was there on the roof to guard him, to watch him, the bird and its nasty caw was there to alert Gary that Rob was out, that Rob was about to lose his bloody footing and take a plunge down to his death, or some serious mutilation.

It was surreal at best, it was insane, and Rob just swallowed hard, staring at Gary – and remembering. He kept looking into Gary's bright eyes, but all he was seeing was the darkness outside, the stars dancing over his head as he held onto the rounded ridge for a dear life. His hands were curled over the expensive egyptian cotton of his comforter, but all he could feel was the harsh cold touch of the roof tiles. And then the smell, candy floss and warm, freshly ironed linen, the smell of childhood and safety, and the soft swish of feathers as the giant wings flapped in the night air.

Rob blinked, his eyes watering, his vision swimming slightly, but the feathery impression was still there, right on the edge of his vision, right over Gary’s shoulder, fluttering and unsteady but not disappearing. The momentary panic struck him but it didn't linger, it couldn't, not faced with the calm stare of Gary's bright blue eyes.

“What are you?” Rob asked, his voice small and shaky, but still somewhat hopeful, even though he wasn't sure what he was hoping for any more. Being told all that was just in his head? Or being told that yes, the world had shifted and ravens and giant wings were what was truly real.

Gary moved then, shifting in his seat and leaning closer, reaching out to touch him, and Rob didn't flinch, didn't move away, suddenly craving that contact, the soft sensation, the sweet smell of candy floss and feathers.

“I'm here to guard you and to guide you,” Gary said, his warm hand covering Rob's sweaty palm and squeezing lightly. “Because you matter, Bob. You matter and I'm here to save you from yourself, and I don't care how much you're gonna kick and scream, I will drag you out of this shit, by your hair, if I have to. Because you matter.”

The smell of feathers was even more prominent now and Rob closed his eyes, feeling the soft touch on his skin. They were soothing, Gary's words were, even if they also promised all kinds of unpleasant things and a harsh reality. For now though, there was only peace and softness around him, and Rob fell into it, fell into Gary's arms, like he did before, letting the other man catch him.

***

“Are you an angel?”

“You could call me that, I suppose.”

The darkness around them was pitch black so Rob didn't even bother with opening his eyes. Gary's arms were around him and so were the feathers, the sweet scent wrapping around him tightly, keeping him safe.

“You have wings.”

Gary chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest, resonating against Rob's ear, making his whole body tingle.

“Birds have wings, too, you know,” he said, his voice soft and smooth, like a quiet melody. The laughter was gone though, and there was a hint of something darker, something sadder, deeper in it. “It's a bit more complicated than that, Bob. But yeah, you can call me an angel if that makes it easier for you to wrap your head around. Just... don't ask me about God, ok? I didn't come here to convert you, I don't care what your beliefs are. I'm here to keep you away from drugs and make sure you stay that way. Just that, nothing more, nothing less. Easy, innit?”

Gary's voice was so soothing, his touch was so relaxing, and Rob's body grew heavier, warmer, more and more ready to sleep. He fought it though, too many questions still on his mind, begging to be asked, because it felt like if he didn't do it now, he'd never get his answers.

“You said I mattered,” Rob murmured, his hand grasping at Gary;'s shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric. “Do I, really? Aren't I just a task? Just a job for you?”

“Both are possible at the same time. Don't you ever care about your work?” Gary asked, and Rob couldn't help a small, bitter smile.

“I used to. Not so much now,” he said, honesty suddenly becoming really easy. He expected Gary to give him some reassuring pep talk now, but the man remained silent, his breath catching a little, as if he wanted to say something but then thought better of it.

“Things change, Bob. People change. Even angels do, sometimes,” Gary said finally, and there it was again, that hint of sadness to his voice, so unexpected that it went right through Rob's body, making him tighten his grip over Gary's shirt as the sudden wave of compassion washed over him.

Rob wanted to say something, to do something, to show the man that he mattered, too, right here and now, but his head was getting heavier, his fingers clumsier, not really able to do more than just stroke the wrinkled shirt on Gary's chest. Rob was sinking down, slowly and peacefully, soaring towards the dream, and then there was this low, rumbling sound again, right against his ear, filling his whole body with sweet vibration.

A song.

Gary was singing, humming a melody that was perfect, all the notes in right order, right there, seeping through Rob's ears and going straight to his heart, making him see the colours and shapes, filling the empty box that was a song, slowly but surely.

Rob's fingers moved against Gary's shirt, rising and falling in time with the soft hum, finding the right keys, finding the right notes, playing it just for the two of them. _Sing_ , he wanted to say, to plead, but he had no voice left, not in this place, halfway down the dream route.

The melody floated with him until he was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it took me so long to come back to it... To all of you who waited and didn't lose hope - thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

In simple, happy stories, the ones you read in colourful magazines or paperback romantic novels, it would all start getting better from now on, as if from the touch of a fairy godmother's magic wand. Or the touch of an angel. Everything would fall into place and start changing, Rob would, bathed in the unconditional love of his winged guardian.

But, as it happens in real life, things weren't that simple.

Rob woke up the next morning feeling like shit, the previous night only a memory, mostly held in his aching body and not his enlightened mind. Sure, maybe he was still aware that his new assistant wasn't exactly a human being, but he couldn't even stop to think about how impossible it was, because he was a mess, a physical mess. His horizons had been broadened, but the experience had done nothing for his attitude. Or the cravings he still felt.

He smoked three cigarettes, one after another, before he even got out of bed, then he proceeded to snap at Gary the second he saw him, and he would surely have flung the plate of eggs, bacon and hash browns at the kitchen wall if he hadn't been too busy throwing up in the bathroom.

Gary was there when Rob looked up from the porcelain bowl, standing in the doorway with his mouth twisted ever so slightly.

“Yes, your body hates you, and rightfully so,” he said before Rob even had a chance to speak up. “No, I don't hate you. It takes more for me to hate someone than them acting like a complete tosser. Clean yourself up, I'll make you some porridge.”

Rob had no strength left in him to argue right now, his stomach still turning, the nasty taste of bile filling his mouth. His body hated him, that much was clear, but Gary's lack of any proper reaction was even more annoying. The memory of a warm embrace and the touch of feathers on his skin was still too fresh for Rob to ignore it, though, and it was clashing with the picture of Gary The Suited Prick so badly that it made his head spin.

“Are all angels bastards like you?” he asked, stepping into the kitchen once again and noticing with a relief the eggs and bacon were gone from the breakfast counter.

“No, only the special ones. Eat up.” A bowl of white goo vaguely smelling of honey slid onto the breakfast counter right in front of Rob. He had an urge to give it a bit of a push so it would slide all the way down the black marble and onto the floor, but he didn't.

“Is that how it's gonna be from now on?” he asked, sitting down on the stool and grabbing the spoon with as much disdain as he could muster.

“More or less,” Gary nodded, pouring tea from a teapot and into two delicate-looking tea cups. Rob stared. He honestly had no idea he owned any of those things.

But then again, he seemed to not have any idea about many things Gary did.

***

The days came and went, measured by the cigarettes he smoked, cups of tea he drank and bouts of anger and desperation that would come and go in waves. There was no craving, not the physical one at least. Gary took care of it with a touch of his hands on Rob's body, the soothing warmth taking the sweats and shakes and nausea away. Gary would do it three or four times a day, and those were the only moments Rob saw any actual compassion in those icy blue eyes.

The rest of time, Gary The Suited Prick was just that – a prick. A slave driver. A tough motherfucker on a mission to turn Rob's life into hell. Never mind he was an angel – and never mind other people would argue Rob was actually leaving hell.

Gary was making him do things, all sort of house chores and physical exercise, all according to some stupid daily schedule he taped to the fridge. There was ten thousand things to do every day and no time for anything else, like sitting the fuck down and having a smoke. Rob was trying to find his way out of it or at least around it. He tried deceit, whining, threats, outright mutiny, but nothing worked so far. His every attempt would be met with the brick wall that was Gary The Suited Prick, and if Rob made a mess in the process, he had to clean it afterwards.

Sometimes Rob would look at the other man and wonder if he hadn't dreamed all that angel thing, what happened on the roof and what came next, the confessions, the wings, the scent of freshly ironed cotton and candy floss. But then Gary would move, turn, swirl, and there it was, a gray blur dragging behind him, a whisper of smooth feathers against the air, and Rob would resume whatever stupid chore he was doing, cursing under his breath but without real malice in his voice.

He was knackered every evening, of course, and sleep would come the moment his head touched a pillow. And there were no nightmares to plague him, no night terrors to wake him up and ruin his rest. Rob was sleeping peacefully and dreaming of music, something that hadn't happened to him in years.

He dreamed notes, motifs, chord progressions and melodies, short, long, simple and complicated, played out on one instrument or fully arranged for a band, an orchestra, a string quartet. He would wake up with his head full of music, still hearing it ringing in his ears, still seeing it on paper, feeling it in his fingertips that tingled as if he'd only just taken them off the piano keys or the guitar strings.

Rob would wake up filled with music, but as soon as he opened his eyes, there was Gary with his fucking schedule, pulling him out of bed and feeding him some disgustingly healthy food before directing him into yet another important task of mowing the front lawn or dusting the door frames. There was no time for Rob to process that music, capture it in any way, be it on an actual instrument or on paper. At first he was okay with it, he didn't mind so much, figuring his dreams were just a weird side effect of his divine anti-drug therapy, and that they would stop soon.

They didn't.

This particular morning, about two weeks into the whole deal, Rob woke up earlier than usual, with his head filled with music so loud that he almost had the urge to cover his ears. His fingers were itching, his whole body was, and so he slid out of his bed, glancing at the digital clock to see if he was going to stumble upon his fucking guardian angel somewhere down the corridor.

The clock read ten to five, and Rob grinned to himself. There was no way Gary would be puttering about at this time of morning – his routine started at half six and Rob already had learned that nothing ever changed in that, no lying in but also no early birds. Dressed only in his boxers and yesterday's t-shirt, Rob padded out of the room and towards the back of the house, to his little stairs, up up all the way to the studio door.

It was rather dark in there, not much of the morning light filtering through the skylights yet, but he could still sense that everything was in perfect order, all the instruments, all the equipment, packed and shielded from the dust... Abandoned. He felt a small twinge of regret, almost like a guilt towards all of the stuff piled in there and not used, wasting away in the neglected attic.

Rob stepped in, flicking the lights on, and that's when he really saw the room. The place was spotless, not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, not a smudge of dirt or greasy fingerprints on any surface. At first he felt ready to rage, at Gary coming in here and messing with his precious instruments, but it lasted only a second. Because everything was in perfect order, exactly the way Rob himself would organise it, sometimes not terribly logical or even practical about assigning the objects to their places, but his way and his only.

Gary seemed to know it and seemed to have respected it, too, with the way he'd left everything in the right way, only cleaning away the dirt and dust. Gary cared about Rob's stupid habits, and that thought made Rob stop mid-step, the weight of the realisation settling heavily on his chest, making the next breath a slightly choked one.

“I'm here to make you sober and keep you sober, so you can start writing music again,” Gary had said during their first conscious conversation, and Rob had just assumed it would never include anything beyond being his watchdog. But now it sort of made sense to him, that second part of Gary's declaration. He was there to bring back the music just as much as he was to keep the drugs away.

“Devious bastard,” Rob muttered, staring down at the set of keyboards, free from their anti-dust covers and ready to use, with Rob's favourite acoustic guitar propped right next to it and a brand new notebook with a bunch of pens lying nearby. Gary had got everything ready, exactly the way he would have arranged it himself.

“Ditch the wings, become full time PA, and you will earn a fortune,” Rob chuckled to himself and sat at the keyboards, one hand switching it on while the other was already reaching out for his notebook. The melody in his head was loud and clear, and it was high time to get it out.

***

The music was pouring out of him in a steady trickle as he was moving in the triangle created by his notebook, his guitar and the keyboards, capturing all the sounds that were in his head and forcing them out. After that first melody – a real song, rough around the edges and still needing some work, but, essentially, all there – he didn't stop, he just went into other bits and pieces that were still there, the leftovers of previous dreams. The sun was up already, filling the room with bright light, but he barely noticed it, just like he didn't notice the cold feet or tension knotting his shoulders and right hand, the aching fingers, the dry throat. Only the nagging from his bladder finally made Rob get up and hobble to the door and down the stairs while cursing with every other step.

The house was quiet and peaceful, with no sign of Gary puttering about angrily or cooking one of his breakfasts, but instead of breathing with relief, Rob found himself somewhat disappointed. Not that he was looking forward to having a row with Gary, but... It seemed like, somewhere along the way, he'd started liking Gary's moronic routine. It made him feel safe, he realised now, with one foot already in the bathroom, and then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Gary's voice.

“Breakfast is on the terrace. Join me whenever you're ready!” It came from the distance, from outside, most likely, and Rob was somewhat grateful that Gary wasn't anywhere closer, to see the effect his little surprise had on Rob. To see it and, most likely, gloat.

“Fuck you, you suited, winged prick,” Rob muttered, resting heavily against the door frame, his heart racing, his legs shaking, his bladder telling him loud and clear how lucky he was that his boxers were still dry.

If Gary had any idea how badly he'd startled Rob, he wasn't showing any of it when Rob joined him on the sunny terrace a few minutes later, still barefoot and dressed only in t-shirt and boxers, and still somewhat miffed, but already relaxed after having a quiet chuckle at his own jumpiness. Gary seemed very much relaxed, too, sitting at the glass table set for two, sipping his tea and greeting Rob with a small nod.

The food was there, too – cereal, milk and a fruit salad, and Rob's first thought was to pull a celebrity and demand a full fry-up, just because. His stomach rumbled loudly though, protesting at the very idea of waiting more than few seconds to be filled, and Rob had to acknowledge his defeat. His body was definitely taking over today, Rob decided, sitting down and filling his bowl with Fruit Loops.

“No boring wholegrain today?” He still couldn't help but snark at the other man, which, as always, earned him an arched brow and a small smile.

“I figured you could use some extra sugar today, after all the hard work you've done.”

Rob shoved a spoonful of colourful rings into his mouth and chewed loudly, feeling his mouth turning into a sweet heaven, which promptly chased away all the snark he had left. Still, he eyed Gary suspiciously from over his overflowing bowl.

“They always told me, in rehab, that I should forget about work and focus on getting better,” he said around his mouthful. “So, I kinda figured you're gonna give me shit for sneaking into the studio. Or, you know, for ruining your precious schedule.”

Gary smiled wider over the brim of his cup, the corner of his eyes crinkling just a little bit, making his whole, usually stony face, to come alive.

“I'm not your usual junkie doctor, I thought you'd realise that by now,” he said, putting the cup on the table and sliding down in his seat, head tilted back and resting against the wicker backrest. He wasn't wearing his usual button up today, having exchanged it for a baby blue polo shirt and jeans, and Rob had to admit that it suited him well, not only taking away a huge chunk of the 'prick' vibe, but also really flattering his looks.

“I believe doing things that make you happy is a great addition to the recovery process,” Gary said, eyes squinting a bit as he stared at the clear blue Californian sky.

Rob snorted and then crunched some more at his cereal. “And why do you think making music is something that makes me happy?”

There was no reply from Gary for a long while, and finally Rob looked up, only to meet the man's blue eyes, fixed on him steadily. There was no blinking, no nothing, at all, the expression on Gary's face so alien that it made Rob's skin crawl a bit.

“I've listened to both your albums, the b-sides of your singles, the demos, the songs rejected during the recording and those few that were scrapped after, from the final cut. I've looked through your notebooks and drafts, all the scraped material and some set aside for later use, I've heard you sing, I've seen you perform, and maybe I'm lacking a thing or two but brain is not one of them. You loved making music, Rob. You still do. It's just the shitload of bad stuff that's happened to you has made you forget how much you really enjoy it.”

Rob stared at him, spoon full of Fruit Loops hanging mid-air, milk dripping slowly over the side and splashing onto the glass surface of the table. He'd heard it before, many times, and from many different people, people who knew all about music, people who knew him for years, people who he thought cared about him. He'd heard it all and he'd never believed any of those words.

Until now.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling embarrassed, as if he didn't have years of experience in taking compliments. What Gary was saying seemed to be hitting a bit too close to home, and it didn't really matter that he was praising Rob. If anything, it made it all even more serious, harder to bear.

“I just don't get it,” Rob murmured, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and swirling it around for a moment. “Why me? I mean, there are so many others like me, better and more fucked up... why do I get the special treatment?”

“Maybe your sins are greater than those of the others,” Gary said, his voice low, thoughtful. Rob snapped his head up at that, looking at his guardian with narrowed eyes, ready to bite back, only to be met with Gary's half smile, the blue eyes sparking with a bit of a mischief.

“C'mon, just how many times have you thought that I must be your punishment, not your salvation?” Gary continued, the smile widening a little, and Rob couldn't help smiling as well.

“I thought you're supposed to be an angel, not a devil,” he said, scooping the cereals onto his spoon again and shoving it into his mouth.

“I never said I was an angel. I just didn't protest when you called me one.” Gary was still smiling but the sparkle in his eyes had vanished. He picked up his cup and drank from it, slowly, staring into the sky again. “If you were into religion of any kind, you'd know that the road to salvation is a long and painful one. But if you manage to walk it, in the end, you're gonna get wings to fly away. That's mostly a metaphor, of course,” he added then, glancing quickly at Rob.

Rob nodded, but his gaze shifted to Gary's shoulders, where he knew those wings were. Literally, not just figuratively. He remembered them rather well, even though they still seemed like a part of a dream. He wanted to ask now, about how and why, about the colour of the feathers, so dark and not how he'd always imagined an angel's wings would look like.

“What am I to you then?” he asked instead, offering Gary a crooked smile. “Punishment or salvation?”

It was meant to be a joke, one of those snappy ones they'd already exchanged so many times. But Gary didn't smile, didn't even look at him. The blue eyes remained fixed on the equally blue sky over the hill tops, the look in them somewhat dark and faraway, and the thin lips twitched, corners turning slightly down, as the man answered.

“Both.”

***

“Rob?” the voice in the receiver was full of hesitation and perhaps disbelief. “Is that you?”

“And who else would that be,” Rob snorted, rolling his eyes as he stretched over his plush sofa, staring at the ceiling, the receiver wedged a bit between his ear and the overstuffed cushion.

“God... dunno, paramedics?” James, his manager, laughed nervously at the not-too-funny joke. “I kinda figured I'd be the first one to get the damn call if... Well, glad to hear you're alive. How's the therapy going?”

“Peachy.” Rob made a nasty face at his crystal chandelier. “I'm slowly getting to the roots of all my problems. Might end up born again Christian if it keeps on going that way for a bit longer. I reckon it'll either bring me shitloads of new fans or scare away the old ones.”

James laughed again, this time sounding a bit less nervous and tense.

“Sure thing, Robert. As long as it helps you stay clean and sober. And how..?”

“I'm writing again,” Rob interjected and grinned widely at the stunned silence in his receiver. “Seriously, Jimmy, I am. Got a bunch of stuff done over last few days, not exactly demos, just, you know, ideas, but I can still send them to you so you could see... so you could shut the execs up if they keep on nagging. I'm working and there's proof.”

“Okay, lets do that, yeah.” James sounded moderately happy but there was a caution in his voice still. Rob rolled his eyes again. He could practically hear the guy's thoughts, of how Rob was a fucking mess and how his 'stuff' was probably even more of a mess, some self-pity lyrics and crappy three chord melodies. Well, he was surely in for a surprise.

“You're gonna get an email soon then. Just remember – it's my sketch pad, not the real deal yet. I'm coming back but slowly, to quote my new anti-junkie assistant,” Rob said, not sure when exactly he started caring about reassuring James like that.

“I see you stopped the war against the man then,” James smiled on the other end, again relaxing a bit more. “Told you he's good, didn't I?”

“Effective, yeah,” Rob nodded at the ceiling, his voice suddenly becoming softer, despite his efforts to stay snippy. Somehow he just couldn't keep up the asshole facade for too long when talking about Gary. He'd stopped calling him The Suited Prick in his head quite so often. It was... unnerving.

“Good, I'm really glad.” James' voice also lost its last bit of edge, going all soft and friendly, something that Rob hadn't heard in quite a while. “Is he allowing visits yet? Allowing you out yet? I'd love to meet up face to face, have a lunch with you maybe. You know, actually have a conversation with you now that...”

“Now that it's possible to have an actual conversation with me?” Rob snorted again and then laughed, even though he felt a bit bitter down inside. Not because the other man was pointing it out, but because Rob himself was starting to realise just how insufferable he'd been for... forever.

“Yeah, exactly,” James replied with a chuckle on his own. “So, will you ask the guy and let me know?”

“Sure thing, Jimmy. Look out for that email I'm gonna send your way soon!”

“Will do. Take care!”

The line went dead and Rob slowly set the receiver on the coffee table. It was nice to know that James wanted to see him, and not to just talk music or whatever. Nice and quite unexpected, if Rob was being honest. For a long time he'd been convinced he was truly alone, with all the sane people in his life leaving him for their own sake. But it seemed that some of them hadn't left, they were just... waiting.

Suddenly there was a tightness in his chest and his breath hitched a little, and Rob pushed himself up and off the sofa, marching fast further into the house, towards his wooden stairs. There was no fucking way he was going to lie here in the middle of the day, bawling his eyes out on his expensive furniture. Not now, not ever if he could help it. Better that he get to work. He wanted to send the stuff to James today and it still needed some polishing.

***

The evening surprised him with sudden change in lighting. Rob looked up from the sound console and groaned, massaging the back of his neck. He knew he should leave it alone already and just email it to his manager – it wasn't supposed to be a proper demo, just a sample, a teaser. It was allowed to be imperfect and incomplete. Still, he couldn't shake off that self-conscious bullshit and he kept trying to make things better, and it just wasn't working.

“I think you're ready,” Gary's voice came from the door, startling him and making him jump in his seat.

“Jesus fuck, you should wear a bell on your neck or something,” Rob said, glaring at the man over his shoulder. “And no, I'm not ready. _This_ isn't ready! Not even close!”

“I thought that was the point,” Gary said, stepping fully into the room and walking towards Rob, a steaming mug in hand. He placed it carefully on the small side table, gently pushing the notebooks aside.

“Chamomile tea?” Rob stared into the mug and then up at Gary. “What the... Seriously? Chamomile tea?”

“You need to start taking care of your voice if you're gonna go through the whole recording process without wrecking your vocal cords,” Gary said, staring back at him with that familiar stony expression. “You're out of practice, Bob. You got hoarse just from recording those bits and pieces, so that says something, don't you think?”

Rob huffed and grabbed the mug, taking few sips of the dreaded brew. He usually hated the smell and the taste of chamomile, but this time he could barely find any. Just honey and vanilla. Damn this magical Gary and his awesome ideas.

“Can I hear it?” Gary pointed towards the console's screen, at the waveform of the last thing Rob had worked on. It was stopped halfway because Rob just couldn't force himself to listen to it any more, even after all the fixing he'd tried to do. It was still rough and raw, and yeah, Gary was right, he was hoarse, and it was showing on that last version.

“Whatever,” he muttered, swirling in his chair and getting up to take the mug and his dark thoughts towards the skylight. He could hear Gary behind him, sitting down and fiddling with the equipment. He wasn't even surprised anymore that his angelic assistant knew hell of a lot about sound engineering and musical instruments. He just left him to it, staring out the window at the darkening sky and sipping his tea, and, surprisingly enough, finding it all pretty calming.

“I think you should send the fifth one.” Gary's voice startled him once again. Rob turned back to the room, frowning at the other man. He vaguely remember how the fifth take sounded and in his mind it was way too simple, too rough to be considered.

“Why fifth?” he asked though instead of protesting straight away.

Gary smiled at him from over the console and flipped few buttons, switching the sound from the headphones to the speakers. Rob cringed as the first sounds of the acoustic guitar filled the air, and then cringed even more when his shaky voice followed.

 

_Save me from drowning in the sea_  
 _Beat me up on the beach_  
 _What a lovely holiday_  
 _There's nothing funny left to say_  
 _This sombre song would drain the sun_  
 _But it won't shine until it's sung_  
 _No water running in the stream_  
 _The saddest place we've ever seen_

_Everything I touched was golden_  
 _Everything I loved got broken_  
 _On the road to Mandalay_  
 _Every mistake I've ever made_  
 _Has been rehashed and then replayed_  
 _As I got lost along the way_

 

“This is real, Rob. This is good,” Gary said into the ringing silence as the file stopped playing. “If it feels incomplete to you, raw and naked, that's good. Because that's how it is. And that's how it should be told.”

Rob took in a long, shuddering breath. His chest got tight again, so did his throat, and he could feel the dreaded tears right there, right under his eyelids, waiting to start falling, treacherous bastards. It was just the first verse and barely a melody, the song far from finished, far from perfect, but... so was he. And that's why it was good enough.

“I fuckin' hate when you're right, you know?” he choked out, and looked away as Gary got up and came closer to him, close enough so Rob could smell the feathers and candy floss. He didn't say a word, he didn't offer any verbal reassurance, he just reached out and pulled Rob into a hug. And that was enough to make Rob stop fighting the tears and let them flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the fragment of Road To Mandalay by Robbie Williams


End file.
